


A Man's Best Friend

by unicornpoe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor John Watson, Dogs, Fluff, It's Johnlock, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Sherlock loves dogs, Soft John Watson, Soft Sherlock Holmes, fluff fluff fluff fluff FLUFF, we stan redbeard being an actual dog, with puppies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 09:58:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16721190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornpoe/pseuds/unicornpoe
Summary: There’s a dog. It’s thin and dirty and trapped, the rope around its neck twisted viciously into a knot and then tied to the rail of the steps leading out of one of the buildings lining the alley. It’s an Irish Setter, John sees, and obviously a puppy, and it’s making low, keening growls in that back of its throat, teeth bared. Menacing, despite how tiny and scrawny it is.“John” Sherlock says.Oh, hell.





	A Man's Best Friend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FinAmour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/gifts).



> So I wrote this for FinAmour's birthday back in September and didn't get around to polishing it up and posting until today. SORRY. I hope you still love it, darling, and let's just come to an understanding that I will always and forever be late to things. Happy belated birthday!
> 
> I have it on good authority that this is the fluffiest thing I've ever written. Please enjoy soft gay kissing and cute puppies as your teeth rot out of your skull. <3

John’s always noticed it. 

Sherlock thinks he’s good at being subtle and yeah, maybe he is to people who don’t know him, but John  _ does _ know him; and Sherlock Holmes is  _ not _ subtle when it comes to dogs.

Every time he lays eyes on one, his face lights up like a Christmas tree for about two seconds before he hides his expression once more, and it’s probably the most adorable thing that John has ever seen. He just… melts.

It’s sort of John’s own personal mission, now. To put Sherlock in contact with as many dogs as possible.

He filters through their cases that way; scanning the Facebook profiles of women whose husbands were murdered to see if they have any pets, taking the embezzlement case at the dog shelter even though it was what Sherlock would deem barely a two. John always makes sure, on warm summer evenings where the daylight stretches to the brink of night, to lead them home after dinner past the dog park, slowing his steps and smiling as Sherlock drags his fingertips along the chain link fence in the hopes that one of the creatures will run up to him.

John’s thought about adopting a dog with Sherlock, of course he has. He’s thought about doing a lot of things with Sherlock. But getting a pet with the person you rent a flat with implies permanency, and even though permanency is about the best thing John can think of—Sherlock, with him, by his side, in his sight, forever—he can’t say the same for Sherlock. He grows bored of things easily, experiments and people and crimes and the monotony of life. What’s to say he won’t grow bored of John?

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

So John has never brought up getting a dog.

“John,” Sherlock says now, tugging on John’s cuff to get his attention. (Even though he already has it). (He always has it). “John. Look.”

They’ve just wrapped up a case (a simple, boring thing that even John had figured out nearly as quickly as Sherlock) and are walking home, their sleeves brushing as they cross the darkened sidewalks of London at dusk. The air is chilly with the beginning of winter, and the buildings cast long shadows across the pavement.

“You ok?” John asks in mild concern as Sherlock stops walking abruptly.

Sherlock’s eyes are fixed on something to his right, and he curls his fingers around John’s wrist seemingly without being aware. “John,” he says again, voice low with—something. Fear? Anger?

Boldly, John situates their hands until Sherlock’s fingers are threaded through his, and holds on. He takes a step forward, looking down the alley that Sherlock is peering at.

There’s a dog. It’s thin and dirty and trapped, the rope around its neck twisted viciously into a knot and then tied to the rail of the steps leading out of one of the buildings lining the alley. It’s an Irish Setter, John sees, and obviously a puppy, and it’s making low, keening growls in that back of its throat, teeth bared. Menacing, despite how tiny and scrawny it is.

“ _ John _ ,” Sherlock says once more, and John thinks  _ oh, hell _ . Sherlock takes a few steps into the alley, pulling John along with him, and the dog barks shrilly, cowering until it backs itself into the shadowy space beneath the dirty steps.

Sherlock drops to his haunches immediately. He holds out his right hand in a sort of offering and pulls his left from John’s grasp, bracing himself on the dirty ground; John steadies him with a touch to the shoulder.

“Here, girl,” Sherlock murmurs, and John is startled by the change in his tone. The frequently cool timbre of his voice is softened, lowered, and John finds himself leaning a little bit closer to the sound in the same way the dog does.

“Careful, Sherlock,” John says as the dog shuffles shakily out if its (her?) hiding place. “She’s scared, and she might bite—”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock cuts in, eyes never leaving the animal. She is bristling with terror, but edging ever closer, and Sherlock is smiling, just a tiny bit. “At the risk of sounding horribly common, she’s all bark and no bite.”

_ Just like you, _ John thinks fondly. “That may be, yeah, but you don’t know who she belongs to either, so we should probably just leave her alone, ok?” John ruffles his fingers through Sherlock’s curls before he can think, and then decides  _ fuck it _ and keeps doing it. They’re soft, and thick, and Sherlock’s smile grows. “I’m sure somebody’s gonna come back for her.”

Sherlock gasps suddenly, and John’s tears his gaze away from him and looks back at the dog.

“Shit,” he groans.

Her back leg is injured; dried blood matts her fur, and she limps heavily as she creeps towards Sherlock’s outstretched fingers. The growls turn into whimpers with the pain of moving, and Sherlock falls forwards a few inches onto his knees as she gets closer. Trembling, the top of her small, auburn head meets the palm of his hand, and he strokes her coat gently.

“It’s ok,” Sherlock whispers softly as he scratches between her silky ears, under her chin. “We’ll help you. My friend John is a doctor, he fixes people, I know he’ll fix you.” Sherlock’s deft fingers work at the knot of rope around her neck as John stares at him; John’s heart beats a hard, dark tattoo against his ribs. “Good girl.”

“Sherlock…” John trails off as Sherlock slips out of his coat and wraps the puppy in it carefully, lifting her into his arms and cradling her against his chest as he stands.

“We have to help her, John,” Sherlock says. His eyes are wide but his jaw is set; there’s a selfless determination in every line of his body, even the gentle circle of his arms, that John knows he cannot fight. Sherlock shivers without his coat on as the night air seeps in closer to his skin, and he drifts towards John. “She’s hurt, and she’s too little to be out here on her own. She’d be so lonely and so scared and…”

“I…” John swallows thickly. There’s an urgency to Sherlock’s words that he doesn’t quite understand. There’s an emotion behind Sherlock’s eyes that is big and true and sad. John’s throat feels tight. “I’m not a veterinarian, Sherlock, and we can’t just. Take her. What if she belongs to someone?”

“Would you leave her out here to the person who did  _ this _ to her?” Sherlock snaps in a voice that seems barely controlled, gesturing to the quivering mass in his arms with a sharp jab of his chin.

John sighs. “No,” he says softly. “I wouldn’t.”

“She’ll die,” Sherlock says plainly. His lips press together in a tight, pale line. “Without you.”

It’s not true. There are a million people more qualified to take care of this animal than John Watson, and he knows it, but he really isn’t convinced that  _ Sherlock _ knows it. The thought is both heartwarming and utterly terrifying.

Of course they’re going to bring the dog home with them.

“Fine,” John says. “Fine. But hurry; it’s cold out here and I don’t want you getting sick because you’re a bloody nightmare when you’re sick, and I’ve already got an injured puppy to take care of.”

Sherlock smiles blindingly at John, stepping closer until he’s completely pressed along John’s side. His eyes are rimmed just a little bit in red, and he’s breathing quickly, and John wants to gather Sherlock up in his arms and press him close and kiss the top of his head. “That’s ok,” Sherlock says, still in that same soft, warm voice. “You’ll keep us warm. And besides, you’re a doctor. You  _ like  _ taking care of things.”

_ I like taking care of you because I love you, _ John thinks. “Git,” he says insead.

“Arse,” Sherlock responds promptly, and holds the dog closer.

***

Mrs. Hudson is, thankfully, too much engaged with her herbal soothers to pay them any attention once they finally get home. They tiptoe up the steps as quietly as they can, John keeping one hand at the small of Sherlock’s back, and breathe a sigh of relief when the door of 221B shuts behind them.

“Okay,” John says. He flips on the lights in the flat as he makes his way to the bathroom. “Bring her here and let me take a look at her.”

Sherlock follows John dutifully, sitting on the loo and lowering the puppy to his lap. She’s asleep, or appears to be, ears twitching with restless dreams. John imagines that it must be very soothing to fall asleep close to Sherlock Holmes’ heart.

John kneels before them, glancing up at Sherlock as he does. This is his mistake. Sherlock’s looking down at John with such an expression of absolute trust on his features that that terror from earlier comes back, tightening John’s chest. Sherlock’s eyes are clear and wide, curls tousled and cheeks darkened from the wind, mouth soft and dawn-coloured.

_ Do I look at you like that?  _ John wonders silently.  _ Like you carry my whole life cupped between your palms, and I’m completely happy about it? _

“Alright,” he says softly, pulling his gaze away. He nudges back the folds of Sherlock’s coat cautiously in an effort not to wake the dog, and peers down at her left leg.

In good light, it doesn’t seem as bad. Nothing more than a deep scrape, not requiring stitches or anything, but still it must have hurt, and he needs to get it washed out before infection sets in.

“Well?” Sherlock asks. He’s going for nonchalant, but it falls terribly flat. John smiles at him.

“Oh, she’ll be ok,” John says. “It’s not bad.” He grunts as he stands, right knee popping, and goes to the bath, turning the knob until clear water pours into the basin. “Need to give her a wash and make sure she’s fed and hydrated, and I’ll need to keep an eye on her for a few days, but she’ll be just fine.”

There’s a yip behind John and he turns around, grinning when he sees that the dog has woken up and is busy being pet and stroked and scratched by Sherlock.

“Get her in the bath?” John says. “I’ll go grab the soap and I’ll be right back.”

***

It’s an ordeal.

The dog is still skittish and hurting, and Sherlock has to hold her still as John washes the scrape on her leg with lukewarm water and dish soap. Sherlock flinches every time she does, and John finds his soft words of comfort almost meant more for Sherlock than the dog.

“It’s alright,” he says soothingly, scooping cupfulls of clean water and pouring them over the shivering dog. His hand knocks against Sherlock’s on top of the soapy animal and he leaves it there. “Almost done.”

Sherlock ends up with more water on him than anyone else, somehow, and as John grabs a towel to wrap the puppy in, he tosses one to Sherlock, too.

“There you go, you funny man. Dry yourself off.” He grins as Sherlock glowers at him and begins to scrub at his hair, droplets of water showering down onto the lino. John scoops up the dog and she presses her wet head under his chin, whimpering quietly. John strokes her damp fur. Sherlock isn’t the only one who loves dogs.

“I’m not funny,” says Sherlock petulantly, unfolding himself and rising to a standing position. He tosses the towel into the pile of their dirty clothes mounded in the corner for John to wash later and then holds his hands out expectantly. Rolling his eyes with more annoyance than he actually feels, John passes her over.

“Yes you are,” John says. He watches Sherlock plant a kiss to the tip of the dog’s nose, and inexplicably feels on the edge of tearing up. “Funny. Good funny, though. Funny that I like.”

Sherlock smiles at him over the top of the dog’s head, the tips of his ears going red. “You, too,” he mumbles, and John is delighted.

***

“We need dog food,” Sherlock says as they make their way into the sitting room. They must look like a strange parade, John thinks; Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and dog.

“I can run out to the store,” John says, and thens stops in his tracks while Sherlock nods and keeps walking. Did he really just offer to run to the store at nine p.m. to get food for a dog that isn’t even theirs that they found an hour ago?

John supposes that this is simply his life now, and that’s… Fine.

It’s all fine.

***

When he gets back, the scene at the top of the steps almost makes his heart stop.

Sherlock and the dog are stretched out side-by-side on the carpet, fast asleep. Sherlock is on his stomach, cheek pillowed on his arms; he looks impossibly young like this, impossibly soft. The golden glow of firelight cast upon his smooth features and the dog curled small and reddish at his side make him look even younger.

There’s a surge of  _ something _ in John’s chest; something so strong that he almost can’t stand it.

He sees a bowl of water next to them on the floor, some of it splashed onto the carpet in dark, damp spots, and he cracks open a can of the food he bought, setting it down softly. Then he gets to his knees next to Sherlock and places his palm on Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock blinks awake slowly, his smile soft and unguarded with the effects of sleep.

“John,” he says. John smiles at him, heart throbbing in his chest, and slides an arm around Sherlock’s waist as the man sits up. Sherlock leans against him with a sigh.

“You fell asleep,” murmurs John. The dog wakes up as Sherlock hums in agreement, dark brown eyes glistening with the firelight, and limps to the bowl of food that John nudges towards her, eating voraciously.

“I…” Sherlock begins, and then trails off into quiet. He watches her eat, and John can see him smiling, a small, gentle curve, where Sherlock’s head rests on his shoulder. “I had a dog like her. When I was a boy.”

John runs his hand down Sherlock’s arm until their fingers are woven together, resting comfortably in Sherlock’s lap. “Yeah?” he says quietly. Sherlock so rarely divests anything of his past, especially his childhood. John doesn’t think it was particularly happy, from the little he’s gathered from Mycroft and Sherlock himself, and so he doesn’t press; but he soaks up every bit of information that Sherlock chooses to give away like a sponge.

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “His name was Redbeard and I… we were best friends. We had adventures.” He laughs self-deprecatingly. “Funny, I know.”

“Good funny,” John whispers, kissing Sherlock’s curls so softly that he’s sure Sherlock doesn’t even notice. “Funny that I like. More than anything.”

Sherlock is silent for a long, long time. Their dog chews messily, spilling bits of wet food onto the carpet as she wags her tail. “He died when I was thirteen,” Sherlock whispers finally, and his voice sounds thick. “He was the last friend I had until—for a long time.”

“Sherlock,” John says softly, and Sherlock lifts his head to look at him, and John reaches out with sure, steady fingers, cradling his cheek gently. John wants to say things. John wants to say  _ I am your friend. I will always be your friend, and I will always be with you.  _ John wants to say  _ You have more friends than you know.  _ John wants to say  _ I love you. _

Instead, John tips towards Sherlock and kisses him.

_ Yes, _ he thinks at the first touch of Sherlock’s soft, full lips against his own.  _ This is right.  _ For Sherlock fits perfectly, slotted here in John’s arms, his lips fit to John’s lips like the last piece of a puzzle, and John’s soul calms with the  _ rightness _ of it. The inevitability and the all encompassing  _ yes _ of it.

Sherlock winds his arms around John’s waist and hums happily in the back of his throat as John pulls back slightly and looks at him.

His eyes are closed, his cheeks are flushed. He looks blissfully content, not a trace of that sadness that had filled his expression moments ago. There is a tiny, perfect smile on his face, and John finds himself smiling, too, as he leans forward and captures that smile with parted lips.

Sherlock is warm warm warm in John’s arms, his bottom lip hot hot hot as John kisses it lingeringly, nibbling just a little bit until Sherlock hums again, deeper and longer, the sound rumbling straight through his own chest and into John’s. Somehow John’s hands have found themselves around Sherlock’s waist and wound through his downy-soft curls, respectively, and he pulls Sherlock even closer to him, flicking his tongue teasingly out and then back in, kissing the corner of Sherlock’s mouth for such a long time that Sherlock’s breaths begin to falter in his lungs, until he whines in the back of his throat and—

“ _ John _ ,” Sherlock says, and then his hands are on John’s shoulders, pushing him backwards until he’s leaning against his armchair and Sherlock is sitting square in his lap, legs wrapped around his waist, arms twined about his neck.

“Oh, hello,” John says in delight, and Sherlock looks at him with eyes that are dark and glassy and dives forward, sealing their mouths together at— _ god _ —really the perfect angle, and John  _ groans. _

Sherlock makes a smug sound but doesn’t pull away, choosing instead to mouth hot, slick kisses against John’s tingling lips, taking John’s top lip between his as he pulls away and then diving back in again before John can get a breath. John holds onto Sherlock’s hips tight enough that he’s sure he’s leaving bruises, but his fingers won’t loosen, his body won’t let this man go, because he has him now  _ finally _ in every single way that he’s allowed himself to dream of, and a few that he hasn’t, and god if Sherlock leaves now, slips out of John’s grasp and stands and walks away, John doesn’t think that he can take it.

“Won’t,” Sherlock gasps against John. John wraps his arms fully around Sherlock and pulls him closer and Sherlock slumps against him, nosing at the shadowy place just under John’s jaw. John bites back a moan. “Won’t leave you  _ ever _ John not  _ ever _ how could you even think—”

“Hush, love,” John rasps. His fingers find the bumpy, fragile ridge of Sherlock’s spine, the soft, warm alcove of his nape, and he caresses him with all the certainty that’s in him. He knows. He does. “I know. I know I know I know and. And I won’t either. Leave you. Ever. God, Sherlock,” he sighs as Sherlock sits up again and takes John’s face in his hands, pressing his closed lips to John’s with enough force to bruise.

John gentles the kiss, takes the urgency out of it. Softens his mouth against Sherlock’s and shows Sherlock how to do the same, smiling when he feels Sherlock’s lips fall open beneath his. He tugs lightly at Sherlock’s curls as he lets his tongue wander into the unknown spaces of Sherlock’s mouth; Sherlock shivers in John’s lap, meeting John’s tongue with his own almost tentatively at first, but growing bolder with each slow, languid swipe.

There’s a bark behind them, and the dog shoves its nose in the space between their hips.

John breaks away with a laugh; Sherlock groans loudly, dropping his head to John’s shoulder and reaching out blindly with one hand to pet the dog. John wraps Sherlock tightly in his hold, and doesn’t let go.

“Idiot mongrel,” Sherlock says, but he doesn’t sound angry.

“Oh, that’s ok. I’m sure we can pick back up where we left off,” John drawls. 

“Mm,” Sherlock says, and lets his full weight fall against John. “I would not object to that.”

John closes his eyes as he turns his head, burying his nose in Sherlock’s curls and breathing deeply. Sherlock sighs, and it’s a happy little noise.

“No,” John whispers, smiling against the lapful of sweet, soft detective that he is lucky enough to hold. The dog barks, and John feels Sherlock’s shoulders shift with a nearly silent laugh. “Neither would I.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me on twitter! I'm @unicornpoe <3


End file.
